


Four Weddings and the In-betweens

by victorcharlie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Same For Relationships, bc author doesn't want to give away who's getting hitched, egregious usage of semicolons, our favorite trash dummies, questionable usage of parentheticals, tags to be updated as fic updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-01 17:54:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15148628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorcharlie/pseuds/victorcharlie
Summary: Ben and Rey interacting over the span of four different weddings, separated by time and the in-betweens.Alternatively, an American-British romcom about the encounters of romance and our favorite people getting hitched.





	1. Wedding #1

It’s a disgustingly wealthy, unnecessarily huge, and all in all lovely reception set up in the English countryside after a preternaturally bright, sunny afternoon ceremony in the cathedral up the hill. Fortunately, for all the pale-skinned attendees (and least of all, for the true sake of the bride and groom), there are billowing white wedding tents set up as far as the eye can see, lined with miles of delicate fairy lights that promise to cast a celebratory glow once the sun sets. Running under the tents are long communal tables outfitted with formal dinner setting, ostentatious flower arrangements spread equidistant between every other seating or so. Servers weave about the space, in and out of the tents, setting up for the four-course dinner.

Guests loiter around under the tents, nursing every kind of cocktail imaginable, making increasingly tipsy small talk and waiting for the newly married couple to make their way down to their reception. The small talk primarily consists of pleasantries about the weather, how lovely the ceremony was, how beautiful the bride looked, the latest football scores, asking where one purchased their fascinator from, and hoping the DJ isn’t a dud. It’s borderline inane.

Ben slouches against the tent post nearest a speaker trying to look as unapproachable as possible to elude any and all small talk, contrary to his role as groomsman (out of nine; pretty unnecessary if you ask him). Albeit, he was forced under duress, given his role as coworker but somehow turned close friend of the groom and bride, to fly across the pond to participate. And now he’s present as the lone American, party of one. Then again, who is he to besmirch the occasion, because who knew two unpleasant people could come together and make for such a pleasant couple? He smirks to himself, sipping on a gin and tonic (the first of many he anticipates). Probably helps that there’s an open bar with direct orders from the groom to serve anyone and everyone, if only to maintain his own sanity and get through the night.

Speaking of fascinators, although Ben actively avoids eye contact with anyone with one attached to their head, he still can’t resist observing how bevies of fascinators of all types and breeds flit across the space. He didn’t think there could be so many uses for and variations of fake flowers and feathers.

Granted, the groomsmen were obligated to wear a top hat, which did nothing but emphasize the size of Ben’s ears and add to his towering height, making him ditch the headwear as soon as he entered the tent. But at least he can be grateful that it didn’t have any adornments.

The same cannot be said for what Ben can definitively deem to be the most outrageous fascinator of the entire wedding.

The preposterous headpiece in question stands at least half a foot tall and double in width, and even with it practically at the complete opposite end of the tents from where Ben is it he can easily spot it out of the flock of them. It’s a gathering of strangely tasteful summer-appropriate pastel plumes attached to a ovular base of large white peonies, interspersed with truly lurid organic forms that jut out in random directions. Overall, the piece does a fine job of carving out the wearer’s personal space, as it perches precariously on the head of who he thinks is here for the bride. (Such a fine job that Ben can’t even make out the person’s face much beyond a smoothly tapered chin.) A drape of mesh finishes the look and provides yet another barrier to unwanted talk. Surprisingly enough, it doesn’t clash with the person’s form-fitting marigold evening gown.

Secretly, Ben envies the wearer because from his observations it seems that most people can only stand a minimum of the hat’s reach away to hold a conversation. He briefly contemplates concocting his own fascinator using the assortment of silverware and flower arrangements present, if only to continue avoiding interactions with guests. He swears if one more of Armitage’s relatives attempts to proposition him a cousin or sister, he’ll stab himself with a fork.

With that thought, he makes his way over to a bar and asks for another drink. (Number two.)

\---

Rey tosses back the rest of her second Pimm’s cocktail, and attempts something of a smile in response to one of Phasma’s uncle’s inane jokes before excusing herself to retrieve a third from the closest bar. Bless Phasma for her foresight for knowing the only way to keep the guests happy was to be sure the libations flowed freely throughout the night.

Making her way through the throng of guests and fascinators, she greets those who dare to make eye contact with her, despite the urge she knows they feel to gawp at her fascinator instead. In retrospect, it perhaps isn’t the most convenient of headpieces to have worn, as her head movement is narrowed to the x-axis because movement along the y-axis may just snap her head. However, all things considered, it’s quite comfortable since the breadth of the piece nicely disperses the weight. And the sheer ridiculous obnoxiousness of the damned thing does such a wonderful job limiting small talk that Rey can’t fault it. She lucked out in her search through secondhand shops; fortunately it isn’t a complete mismatch with her evening gown, which happens to be yet another secondhand shop find. A brilliant steal, if she does say so herself, discovered her last year of doctoral studies, found just in time for the end of the year events, after successfully defending her thesis. She smiles to herself at the memory and thanks the bartender for her third Pimm’s with a controlled nod.

It was around that time she met Phasma, she supposes, neck deep in her final edits and practically swimming in formulas, proofs, and tears. Hard to ignore it when the notoriously brilliant, hundred-ninety centimetre tall, ice-blonde politics postdoc sits at your table in the library during exams and asks to borrow a pencil. Who would’ve ever imagined that would lead to a steadfast friendship? And now Rey’s flying solo at what is perhaps the most risible show and union of British wealth between her friend (old money from some far flung noble line) and the ginger (nouveau riche from real estate) who she managed to fall in love with while abroad in the States.

Kriff, their children are going to be pasty. And tall.

Though given the genetic predisposition for height present in both families, it makes perfect sense that there are quite a few tall people present. Yet, Rey couldn’t help but to notice the distinctly non-blond, non-redheaded bloke amongst the groomsmen. He stood just as tall as the bride and groom at the altar, and perhaps even more stoic than them. Nevertheless, for all his nonchalance, the man cut a sharp, dishy figure in his wedding suit. She’ll never admit it but she spent the majority of the rather dry ceremony eyeing his profile, noting various things as one does when the priest drones on.

Once again, perhaps the first thing she noticed was his striking black mop of hair, more luscious than limp, and no doubt effortless in its maintenance; followed next by his rather large, but straight, nose, which leads directly to his enviously plush lips; his clearly bespoke suit snug around his broad shoulders, and posture excellently upright; sadly, she couldn’t get too good of a read on his bum because his coattails covered it. Altogether, an acutely handsome man, Rey will admit. (Secretly maybe even her type.)

Later, as the ceremony ended and the guests moved away from the cathedral to the reception tents, she lingered behind with others to watch the wedding party get their pictures taken. All amazons and giants, the lot of them. Terse directions from the photographer are thrown about and a mad dance of bodies happens across the cathedral steps. One supposes two spouses, a wedding party of eighteen, and more than a handful of family members on each side requires some firm corralling. Top hats and fascinators hold as the photographer’s assistants properly angle everyone and the wedding planner fixes appearances. Rey’s eyes seek out the stoic groomsmen in the sea of people, and she almost laughs when she spots him.

Or rather, spots his big ears.

He must intentionally hide them, she chuckles. Clearly according to the pinched look on his face, the photographer must have ordered him to tuck his hair behind his ears so he look visually uniform with the other groomsmen, who all lack his hair length and thus have their own ears on display. It’s adorable, really, how they almost seem to prop up his hat. Allowing herself a last giggle at how they jut out, she leaves just as the photographer unleashes a flurry of lens shutters and follows after the rest of the guests down to the tent.

She spots him now across the tent, hair back to hiding his ears, off to the side. He’s nursing a fresh drink and successfully detering any interaction. Would he talk to her if she approached?

She’s almost halfway through her own drink and considering moving over in his direction when her attention is pulled to the tent opening where the smiling bride and groom saunter in, hands linked together. Applause and whoops fill the tents and the music crescendos with their entrance. Rey abandons her previous thoughts and joins in with her own raucous cheering; whistling when Armitage dips Phasma to please the crowd, hooting when she goes in for a kiss.  It’s sickeningly sweet.

“All right you all, settle down now.” Phasma flushes against Armitage, arm thrown over his shoulder. “We would thank you all for joining us, but I know you’re really all just here to eat, so be done with the formalities and let’s sit and feast and enjoy!”

More cheers erupt and Rey moves to sit at her place card, folding the napkin onto her lap and readying herself to tuck in.

\---

Four delicious courses later, it’s offensive how sated Ben is. The food alone makes the inevitable small talk amongst his surrounding tablemates worth it. (A third gin and tonic and a generous dram of whisky to accompany the main may have helped.)

He’s sat in the middle of two bridesmaids with a similar sandwich mirrored across him. Three of the women are Phasma’s childhood friends, the fourth is Armitage’s younger sister and the groomsman is his cousin. All are nice enough.

Since he flew in the night before the wedding, he avoided the corresponding pageantry leading up to the actual event. Thus, he’s been able to pass himself as Armitage’s reticent American colleague, focusing mainly on eating and letting the other five carry the conversation. Admittedly, whenever they coaxed him to chime in, what with some question about his friendship with Armie (“We share similar interests.”) or what kind of work does he do at the company (“I manage the Manhattan real estate.”) or how much longer he’ll be staying (“Just a few days in London before flying back out.”), it’s been on the more pleasant side of endurable; British people are polite enough not to prod.

By the time the last dessert dishes are swept away and alcohol’s more devious side slips in, night has settled in and the fairy lights are lighting a path to the dance floor. Waves of people excuse themselves from the table and make a quick stop at the bar to replenish their reserves before heading to the dark end of the tent where rowdy bodies are quickly gathering. Soon Ben’s tablemates do the same and he’s left by himself for the first time all day.

Now that he’s alone, he immediately realizes just how drunk he is. How warm his face feels, how his head vibrates in place, and how his body thumps with the bass of the music. He’s distantly aware of his arms sliding out of his tailcoat and his hand coming up to loosen his bowtie. He feels that dangerously euphoric feeling he knows he only feels when properly intoxicated; the inescapable feeling that makes him regrettably invincible and uncharacteristically bold. Somewhere in his hindbrain he knows he should sit back down and down a pitcher of water and stop right this instance, but it instantly quiets when the music turns up and he sees the mass of people dancing and thinks he wants to, too.

(Oh, he knows he’s going to regret this so much in the morning because he’s no longer in his twenties, but kriff it, his friends just got hitched.)

So he’s up and swipes a shot of vodka off the tray of a passing server on his way to the dance floor. Another shot right at the sidelines and he enters the fray.

Strobe lights are pulsing.

Bodies in suits and gowns are flying.

His arms are flailing.

He knows he’s reached his maniacal peak when he starts laughing apropos of nothing.

Then he sees her once again across the tent, through the shuttering of surrounding bodies, dancing with nobody in particular.

She’s since lost her fascinator, but that was never the captivating thing about her.

The marigold dress she wears glimmers under the lights, and Ben can’t help tracing the contours of her body, letting his wicked eyes wander to the dip of the neckline. He knows that without the plying of alcohol he wouldn’t otherwise dare such an obscene gaze, but he wants to give in and he does. Her golden skin glistens with sweat and he wants to taste. Now that the headpiece is gone, he sees hair escaping from its chignon and he wants nothing more than to unravel the rest to tangle his fingers through it. Her eyes, however, are closed, and he’s never felt more bereft.

He wants to see what color they are.

So he goes, crossing the sea of bodies to where she is.

The closer he gets the faster his heart beats, the quicker his breath.

How kriffing stressful.

Before his brain can even consider how monumentally terrible of an idea it is and abort, Ben’s stopped directly in front of the woman, who continues to dance unaware of his presence.

Maybe this is a way out from the universe; he could just turn right around and no one would be none the sober.

“I really liked your fascinator.” He’s managed to shout it loud enough over the deafening music that everyone within a two body radius momentarily stops moving to look at him, dismissing him and resuming their movement.

Kriff, what has he done.

But the words did their job leaving his mouth and entering her ears because she’s finally stopped dancing, and is looking him directly in the eyes.

They’re a kaleidoscope of hazel and they are spellbinding.

A frisson of something passes between them and Ben quivers.

She’s flushed from what must be a reflection of his own intoxication and exertion, and she beams. “It’s an atrocious abomination and I love it, so thanks!”

The music morphs into a song with a heady beat and teasing bass, and the people around them begin to twist sinuously. The lights are bouncing off her face and she’s still starting at him, lips parted.

It’s now or never, he thinks, you’ll never see her again so do it.

“Let’s dance,” he intones, reaching down to slip an arm around her slight waist and pull her flush against his body. She shudders in response, hands coming up to grip onto his front to brace herself, and Ben groans, eyes falling half-mast. He’s emboldened to run his hands across the path his eyes traced earlier and commits it to memory.

They undulate together to the swelling beat, hips cradling each other, swaying in tandem. Her eyes never leaving his face, pulling him in.

As the song crests, Ben let’s his eyes shut so he can memorize every fiber of this moment. How his body feels against her body, a livewire of sensations; sweat running down his face, wetting his hair; the dryness of his mouth; the tightness of his pants; how the fullness from dinner is nothing more than an aching crater of hunger in the pit of his stomach; how kriffing alive he feels.

Then her hands slide up his front to wrap around his neck and into his hair, eliciting a moan from him and he clutches her hips, before she tugs him down, down, down to her waiting mouth.

And they’re kissing.

Lips on lips; tongue gliding over tongue.

It’s now, he knows, that even if he never sees her again, he’ll have now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back with another trash reylo goodie. i'm amazed by how inspired i am. i have a full outline planned out for this fic; looking at maybe eighteen vignette-y styled chapters, give or take. i basically churned out this first chapter in a night, which is not the greatest for my job-self but does wonders for my writer-self. so while i anticipate a similar excitement and writing fervor, i can't guarantee a regular posting schedule, but i can guarantee completion. 
> 
> kudo, comment, subscribe - it really is wild how gratifying reader response is.
> 
> p.s. i listened to and watched the mv for the flume remix of 'you & me' by disclosure on repeat during the dance scene ;-)
> 
> p.s.s. yes this is inspired loosely by four weddings and a funeral. i'm but a small fledgling who can only use 90s-00s romcoms as scaffolds for my wants.
> 
> p.s.s.s. okay yeah this was technically a reception and not a wedding but it all falls under the same umbrella of expensive


	2. In-between (two days later)

A passing car lets out a prolonged honk and a few choice words directed at Rey as she scampers across the street through the drizzle, bag over her head. Of course the weekend was a sunny anomaly, she thinks, narrowly avoiding a puddle of dirty kerb water.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ve all got places to be,” she mutters, ducking under a convenience shop awning to consult her phone. Opening up her messages displays an amiable text that relays the address for an “excellent fish n chips spot!” just around the corner that Rey already knows isn’t actually that good; the fish is too fried and the chips aren’t thick enough. The sender is supposedly the grandson of a friend’s sister’s second cousin once removed that Phasma’s great-aunt Louisa somehow knows from somewhere and eventually strong-armed Rey into going on this blind lunch date with. Really, she blames that last glass of pinot for making her so susceptible to that biddy’s wheedling.

Granted, if the question of how exactly she was persuaded to entertain a blind date is ever asked, Rey would blame it all on the alcohol that flowed through her that night. She would, of course, be hard pressed to admit it was really because of the residual discomfort she felt remembering the old woman’s implied tone. ( _Alone, forever_.) Lying in bed the morning after, nursing a massive hangover and regretting every drop of Pimm’s was no better, as she tried to write off the murky snatches of her writing down her phone number on a torn napkin as only a means to get the woman off her back. Not because her lowered inhibitions made it such that her fears of loneliness were prime for the picking by a sharp-eyed octogenarian.

So now she’s spending her one weekday off on a blind date, whilst actively trying not to think about how she’s thinking about the double stack of papers in her bag waiting to be graded before the next exam.

It was just her luck, too, that she chose to wear her nice shoes in an attempt to try for appearances and forgot to check the weather. Now the drizzle has leveled up to a steady rain, and Rey can feel her annoyance rise.

Annoyance at the weather.

Annoyance at papers that need grading.

Annoyance at presumptuous great-aunts.

Annoyance at drunk-Rey.

(Annoyance at lonely-Rey.)  

The whole situation isn’t made any better when her phone pings with a text from her date letting her know that he’s made it to the spot and he’s got them a nice window seat so she’ll see him, but to take her time since it’s raining and he wouldn’t want her to slip.

Annoyance at amiable-sounding blind dates.

She taps out a quick text back to let him know she’s almost there, sorry for running behind, no slipping, and she’ll be the idiot without an umbrella. With that she supposes it’s prolonging the inevitable at this point, and it would be quite rude to keep her date waiting. With a low exhale, she bites the bullet and runs down the street, staying as close as she can to the store fronts and their awnings, weaving through oncoming pedestrian traffic.

Kriff, she’s getting soaked. The distaste of being wet pushes her to quicken her pace. And then she’s turning the corner, and he’s there like he said he would be, sitting patiently at the window bar, umbrella docked by his feet. When she approaches the window, he stands and gives her a small wave through the glass. She raises a hesitant hand back.

Casually dressed. Low fade with twists. Nice enough smile. Strong jaw. Probably a few inches taller, maybe even shorter now that she has her nice shoes on; hopefully he doesn’t have a strop if that’s the case.

(Her thoughts can’t help but to flash to a towering, sable-haired man with searing hands.)

Okay, could be worse, she admits, maybe that old biddy wasn’t completely off her rocker. She ducks in after an exiting patron to enter the bustling pub and wipes an errant raindrop off her forehead. Another breath out and she’s made her way over to her date, unpleasantly conscious of how damp she is when she sticks her hand out in greeting.

“Hi, I’m Rey,” she says, “Nice to meet you, Finn.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Rey.” He returns the handshake with a fair amount of appropriate pressure, shaking a customary two times; not at all limp and assuming as many of the handshakes she gets. Point in his favor. “Glad you made it.”

“Sorry if I kept you waiting.”

“Not at all. I’d have half the mind to stand myself up if I knew it was Louisa who set me up,” he concedes self-deprecatingly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Anyway, picked us a good spot by the window. I don’t know if you care to people watch, but I thought it’d at least give us something to do in case things get awkward, and that way we don’t have to stare at each other.” He jokes, and she can’t help but to smile.

“Better to people watch than awkwardly watch each other, I always say."

“I’m glad you agree.”

They share a chuckle and Finn pulls out a chair from the table, which Rey belatedly realizes she’s meant to sit in. Doing so awkwardly, she then fights to shuffle forward when he also helps scoot the chair in behind her. As if they’re not actually about to eat a basket full of oily, fried fish and chips. Half a point off for utter ridiculousness. Thanks, but she can seat herself.

He manages to flag down a server and sits back across from her. “So you met Louisa at a wedding?”

“Yeah, I was sat near her for dinner.” Rey fiddles with the weathered plastic salt and pepper shakers. “She was nice enough,” she trails off, not sure what Finn’s relationship with the woman is.

“Hey, I’m surprised you managed to make it through an entire meal with the woman and only get a blind date set up. I’ve heard stories of her instigating full on betrothals,” he shudders, “And some of them have been to me.”

Rey can’t help herself and snorts. “Did I mention it was a proper four course dinner?”

His eyes comically widen, hand lifted to his chest. “And you mean to tell me we’re not married yet?” There’s a pause before a grin breaks across his face, and Rey feels her face lift in reflection.

A bored looking teen in a truly dreadful pink polo with a name tag emblazoned with ‘Maurice’ plods over and interrupts with two oil-stained paper menu, drops them on their table and walks away without a word, causing the two seated to break into another round of laughter.

“Well, I for one am starving, Rey,” Finn says, eyeing through the menu, “A friend of mine back in America eats the fish and chips here every time she comes over and raves about it, so I’ve been dying to try it out.” He jabs down at where said dish is on the menu.

He looks genuinely excited that Rey knows she’ll regret but relents and orders the same. This is a date, she supposes, might as well put one’s best foot forward and all that.

Maurice is soon back to take their matching orders (extra tartar for her, a coke for Finn, and stout for her) before lumbering back to the kitchen to undoubtedly grumble their food order at the cook.

They watch him until the last sliver of the tacky pink shirt disappears behind a swinging door. And with him goes the wind from their conversation. An awkward lull sets in and background noise picks up; snatches from other lunch conversations, clinking cutlery.  

Rey plays with a loose string at the hem of her shirt and averts her eyes to the window to take up people watching. She sees Finn do the same out of her periphery. The rain has died down and the street is relatively clear because of lunchtime. Kriff, this is a date, she inwardly grimaces, what do people do on dates? When was the last time she was even on a date? She feels her annoyance begin to rise again at her lack of recall.

The mental berating she’s about to give herself is cut short when Finn abruptly turns back to Rey. His brows are furrowed and eyes narrow with determination.

“Okay, Rey. I have to come clean.”

“About what?” A nervous waver in his voice has Rey warily reaching for her bag on the chair next to her, ready to run if something shady happens.

“Look.” He stops short, brows furrowing even more, mouth set in a troubled line. “Okay… Look, I’m not who you think I am. Or, wait, no. I am. I am who you think I am. Just not really. Or, sorry, that sounds terrible. Let me start over.”

She has a grip on the strap but weighs the merits of wielding the butter knife if push comes to shove. “I would be very careful about the next words that come out of your mouth, Finn. If you even are Finn.”

Maybe-Finn scrubs a hand over his face and groans into it. Both hands come up to his face and he props his elbows onto the table. He loudly exhales and peeks through his fingers at Rey.

Wow, she’s never drinking ever again if this is what happens, she thinks, blinking bewilderedly back at the man across her. There’s not enough bloody Pimm’s in the world to get her to go on another blind date.

“Okay, I’m just going to say it since you’re looking at me like I’m a serial killer or something,” Finn mutters, scrubbing his face once again. He takes a deep breath in and out. “I’m gay.”

Rey knows she’ll retrospectively throw herself into the Thames for the way her mouth falls open and the absolute moof-milker way she says, “Oh.” But there it is.

“Yeah. Sorry for lying to you. I’d blame it all on Louisa, but she doesn’t even kriffing know. No one does. But you deserve to know.” Finn looks more miserable with each word. “Because it’s killing me to lead you on like this and waste your time. I’m really sorry, Rey.”

She’s weighing the merits of stabbing herself with the butter knife at her own foolishness as she waits for her words to catch up with her brain. “Wait. No, stop, Finn. Stop.” She lets go of her bag and reaches across the table for the man’s hand for an uncharacteristic, voluntary touch. The distress running rampant over his face is something she’s acutely familiar with. “Look at me.” Her tone brooks no debate and he meets her eyes over their linked hands.

“Let’s get something straight. Kriff, no kriffing pun intended,” Rey almost reaches for the butter knife but is relieved when Finn cracks a small smile, “You never lied to me, you haven’t led me on, and you aren’t wasting my time.”

“So you aren’t upset?” His fingers tense up under her own.

“About what? That the atrocity of a construct known as this shoddy excuse of a blind date is over?” Rey scoffs. “Please, I’m overjoyed that we can at least do away with the farce of it. Finn, if you couldn’t tell, I am so out of my element.”

The distress has receded and is eclipsed with a more befitting grin. “Yeah, you are pretty awful at this whole blind date thing, Rey. You couldn’t have made me pulling out your chair for you more awkward.”

“Oi, I’ll have you know I’m perfectly capable of seating myself. Not to mention, we’re at a kriffing pub. Who even does that?”

“I’ll have you know I was top of my class in cotillion; I have impeccable manners,” he says, nose raised in faux-snobbery, “ And even if this wasn’t a non-date-blind-date, I’d still pull your chair out for you.”

“Right, and I got private lessons from the Queen.” Rey rolls her eyes.

They let the image sink in and snicker. Rey curtseying at the foot of the Queen; hilarious, if she didn’t fall flat on her face first.

“Also, non-date-blind-date? Is that what this is now?”

“Yeah, because this technically still counts as a blind date, but not in an actual date sense. At least not romantically. Not that I wouldn’t want to date you. But I guess what I’m saying is that we’re just better off friends,” he simpers, “And because the gay thing.”

“Did you just reject me with an offer of friendship?” Rey can’t help the grin spreading across her face.

Finn looks sheepishly at her and shrugs. “If you’ll have me?”

“I guess we’ll just have to send Louisa a fruitcake,” she giggles.

He squeezes her hand in more than thanks, and she finds herself returning the action with ease.

Maurice is back with a tray of their food and they separate hands to receive their plates. Two plates of overly greasy fish and chips.

Rey can’t cover her grimace in time and Finn spots the expression.

“What’s wrong?”

She takes a moment to consider lying to him, but quickly dashes the thought. If they’re going to be friends, he’s going to have to get used to her opinions, she supposes.

“I guess it’s my turn to be honest with you now, Finn, since we’re no longer on a date-date.” She pauses, waiting for their server to disappear again lest he be offended by her scathing words. “This is truly rubbish stuff.” Finn gasps. “If you were a proper Brit I’d have no qualms blasting you, but since you’re an American I suppose you get a pass for such a shoddy choice. But after today I’m going to have to take you to a proper pub and show you the real stuff. But if there’s one thing I am not, it is a waster of food. So… bon appetit, I guess,” she finishes lamely, picking up a chip.

“But I was so excited to eat this.” The crushed look on his face as he takes the fish and chips in a new light is enough to make her throw her head back and laugh until Finn joins in.

“Fair enough. I’m holding you to taking me to a proper pub,” he attempts her accent. “To new friendships over bad fish and chips.” He raises his cup to toast and Rey follows in suit.

With a resounding clink, they solidify their newfound bond, and the next two hours are spent talking more than eating.

They fall back into the same easy rapport they started the now non-date with, and it’s unnervingly wonderful how effortless it is to talk to Finn. Any of her usual conversational clumsiness is assuaged by his seemingly preternatural understanding to steer their talking down some silly tangent anytime even the inkling of an uncomfortable topic arises. For that, Rey realizes she’s made a tremendous friend.

(It’s also wildly impressive how the man talks a mile a minute and manages to do so whilst chewing with his mouth closed; she really should ask for lessons.)

She learns that he’s a visiting doctor at the local hospital, working in the pediatrics ward for the next two years. Finn also admits his inspiration behind pursuing medicine may or may not have been the because of a doctor who set his broken arm as a teen, and the same doctor he may or may not have had his first crush on.

(“Look, I was fifteen and fell off my skateboard and Dr. Calrissian was beautiful and had a really tender touch, all right?

“What color was your cast?”

“Periwinkle. He signed it, too.”)

They narrowly avoid knocking over their drinks when the latest Sy Snootles bop comes on over the sound system and both their arms shoot out in excitement.

She shares her own male-dominated postdoc woes, and is relieved when Finn rallies behind her grievances. She finishes off her beer in between worrying over her hunt for a professorship and commiserating about shitty coworkers who don’t clean the microwave out.

He asks about her favorite restaurants, since she so clearly has opinions. She rattles off her top four in six different categories.

(“Finn, everyone knows if a place is authentic, the bathroom’s going to double as the storage closet, too. It’s practically the law.”)

They discover a shared love for singing competitions, especially for the overzealous, clearly producer-influenced sob stories.

(“Okay, so we can both agree Simon is totally misunderstood and always well-intentioned?”)

And by the time they’ve finished off their meals, the rain has cleared and the lunchtime rush is thinning out.

“As much as I’d love to continue hanging out, I’m afraid this bag is filled entirely with papers that need to be graded,” she groans, shouldering said bag.

“Yeah, I’ve got to head back to the hospital to start my shift anyway.”

“Which way are you headed then?”

“Over to the subway. You?”

“I’m through the park.” She points over her shoulder. “Well, it was wonderful meeting you, Finn.”

“Like I said, Rey, the pleasure’s all mine.” He reaches out to squeeze her hand again. “We’ve got each other’s numbers; don’t be shy. Besides, I hear our next non-date is at this proper pub place. Rave reviews. Comes highly recommended by a friend of mine.”

“Oh, I think I know the place you’re talking about. Great food. Your friend clearly has brilliant taste.”

“Yeah, and a big head,” Finn gibes.

Rey gasps in mock offense and softly shoves him in the opposite direction. “Get out of here. Go save kids’ lives or something.”

With a final shared grin, they part ways.

Who would have ever guessed the old biddy’s interference was going to reap such a fortuitous outcome? She’s really might just have to make good on her word and ask Phasma for Louisa’s address so she can send a fruitcake.

Looking both ways before crossing the street this time, she cuts across and enters the park. It’s one of her favorite places in the entire city. And the flowers scattered about the space are lovely, but it’s really the trees that she loves. The wide expanse of greenery provides ample shade, but leaves just enough space in between the leaves that allows you to peek up at the sky, which has returned to a placid and cloudy blue. There’s nothing quite like the wet smell of damp soil after rainfall, and Rey is sure to take in measured lungfuls of clean plant air to counterbalance the smog of the city.

She’s two-thirds of the way through the park and almost to the exit when a sonorous dog bark catches her attention and she turns to locate the sound.

To her left is a massive borzoi barking at a squirrel that’s scampering up a tree; it’s haggard looking owner struggles to pull the dog away.

Farther away, sitting past the finished scene on a bench five hedges down, is Reception Man.

Maybe if she were in a rush she wouldn’t have spotted him. Wouldn’t have stopped in the middle of an otherwise empty path to stare at him like a looney.

She can’t stop herself from taking a few steps away from her route and towards the seated man.

It’s undeniably him.

He’s hunched over. His long legs are crossed, a thick tome open across them with an elbow to anchor, while those amble fingers wrestle what Rey thinks is falafel pita (and if her eyes don’t mistake her, the wrapping pattern leads her to believe it’s from the second best Palestinian food stand in the city) into his open mouth. Earphones disappear into his hair; big ears covered. A black Chelsea boot bobs to the beat of whatever he’s listening to. He’s wearing tortoise shell, horn-rimmed glasses.

It’s only just slightly devastating how handsome he looks, even when so far away and without the cushion of inebriation.

She’s completely deviated off her original path and seven hedges away from him before she stops herself short.

What is she even doing, she berates herself.

(Should she go up and say something?

Hi, do you remember me? You complimented my absolutely mental fascinator.

We also snogged on the dance floor two days ago?)

(When he responds would his voice still be low and gravelly?

If she thinks hard enough, she can hear the sharp rhotic curls of his American accent.)

Suddenly, he spasms and Rey’s afraid she’s been caught. After a beat though she realizes it’s really because a piece of falafel fell out of the pita and onto his book. He curses under his breath, scrambling to pick up bits of fried chickpea from off the pages, scooping it into his mouth.

Another beat passes and she's acutely aware of how long she watches him bring fingers to mouth, lips enveloping long fingers to suck off sour tzatziki.

She swallows and grips her bag involuntarily. The feeling of worn leather under her hand is enough to pull her back to reality. Right, there are papers that need grading, she reprimands herself, lots and lots of papers.

With a final concerted look that she will absolutely not think about, Rey spins around and steals back across the park. She’s had her fill of Americans for today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for waiting, everyone. i originally had a different outline for this chapter but the flow was weird and included too many ocs, so i swapped some things around and i think it turned out for the better.
> 
> p.s. i imagine ben as a borzoi, if not park borzoi
> 
> p.s.s. ben in horn rimmed glasses anyone??


End file.
